Vile

Precious little mingle fling,  
I’ll push two fingers through the ring  
if that’ll make you love me more.  
Your hatch is patched up by a sore.  
Makes the mute and tone deaf sing for more.  
 
Ring ding ding, curtains up,  
Wake up.  
Make-up.  
MATE. SLUT.  
 
Deflowered, underpowered, over-cowered,  
faintly soured?  
Need a shower??  
 
I find my findings ever so found.  
Cheeks blackened. Broken back-end.  
Front’s a mess too. A total wreck and,  
I meant to warn ya about the crack when  
you went to town on that stacked crowd.  
Heck, I’ll even lend you a chute to drain  
your paranoid puke.  
 
Nothing? Might’ve been a fluke.  
 
It shows, cowards get carried by crows.  
Best men avoid marriage by vows.  
Last man stands proud before crowds.  
Rest of it fits right in the…  
 
Wow.  
 
I just realised my loosely viced advice is  
pragmatised by lies.  
Infected by plural bi-erected, surprise-injected  
futile cries.  
Plenty wise would eventually realise the poor  
perfected rise in ghillie-disguised demise  
is deprived by merely in-justified linger-eyes.  
 
So lonely.  
 
So lonely am I.  
 
Lonely as the word “I”.  
 
That’s not a word.  
 
One letter shy.  
 
So “ay”,  
would like to pretend  
that all is fine.  
 
Like to pretend things are different  
for a while.  
 
Less… Vile.